


Immersion

by stormonmyskin



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Death, Gen, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-11 22:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18433220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormonmyskin/pseuds/stormonmyskin
Summary: When he turned up at Robbie’s house and explained what had happened, he saw the downturn of his boss’s mouth, and thought he knew what he was thinking. Why’d it have to be a child? At Christmas?The cases involving children always got to James the most.





	1. Chapter 1

7pm on a cold Christmas Eve evening.

 

There were many places James would have liked to be just then.

 

Looking down at the bodies of a mother and child in the child’s bedroom was not one of them.

Of all the call-outs to get at Christmas, which was already the worst time of year to be a detective, it had to involve a child, didn’t it? Of course it did.

 

The call had come through a little after 6pm. James had groaned as his dispatch mobile had gone off, then listened to the message that came through and groaned even more.

This time of year was always a particularly tough time for him and his Inspector, Robbie Lewis, what with Robbie’s wife having been killed just before Christmas, and both of them on their own over the festive season. They usually both worked all over Christmas, hoping and praying for – and more often than not, receiving – no serious call-outs. It was never fun having to go to someone’s house, knock on their front door and tell them their child, or parent, or sibling, or partner had passed away, but Christmas was the worst time of all.

For the most part, they had got lucky. There was almost always the odd fight to break up, occasionally someone falling and hurting themselves, the odd car crash and a few old age pensioners who didn’t make it through the festive season, but nothing that warranted a full investigation. Drunken fighting usually just merited a night in the cells, and a lot of paperwork.

This year, however, they weren’t so fortunate.

 

When he turned up at Robbie’s house and explained what had happened, he saw the downturn of his boss’s mouth, and thought he knew what he was thinking. Why’d it have to be a child? At Christmas?

 

The cases involving the children always got to James the most.

 

It was a quiet drive to the scene, on an estate not far from the river. There wasn’t much traffic about; most people were already safe at home for Christmas, settled with their families. James was driving, and Robbie knew the look on his face, the one that said he didn’t want to talk. Both had heavy hearts when James pulled up outside the house in question, which was clearly marked out by the numerous police and medical cars, blue lights flashing, police tape everywhere and house lights blazing in the darkness of the evening. Both men braced themselves before getting out of the car.

They acknowledged the constable on guard, who let them under the police tape, and went up the path to the house. Robbie went in ahead of James, who lingered, looking around, noticing everything. There were large, topiaried bushes either side of the front door, effectively shielding it from the direct view of the neighbours, unless they were stood directly in front of the door.

The glass pane nearest the handle in the front door was smashed, clearly so whoever was breaking in could reach around and unlock the door from the inside. There was no blood on the shards, nor any on the floor, so it hadn’t been punched in with a fist, but with an object. James observed a hammer on the ground underneath the window, and cleared his throat at a constable, pointing at it to have it marked. The constable sprang into action.

Inside the house, there was a key rack screwed to the wall in the hallway, and James observed a set of house keys, what looked like a shed key, and a set of car keys. A door off to the left, to what seemed to be the living room, and then stairs ahead of him, with a hallway down to the left of the stairs, presumably to a kitchen.

There were signs of a struggle on the stairs, and scuff marks on the skirting boards all the way up and along the landing into the nursery, where the carnage was. At the bottom of the stairs was a child-gate, open. On the latch side, James could see blood.

Laura was already there in the nursery once he reached the top of the stairs and went in. She looked grim, crouched over the body of the mother. The child was in a cot bed in the corner. James tried not to look.

 

“Stabbed, both of them,” Laura was saying as he entered the room. “It looks like the mother struggled before she was killed; there are cuts to her head, hands and arms, and bruising to her neck, suggesting whoever did this tried to subdue her before she was killed, but I’m fairly certain it was the stab wound to the heart that finished them both. I can’t say which first, not for certain at this stage, but their times of death were very close together, within minutes. I’d put it at about five hours ago, so somewhere between 1 and 2pm this afternoon.”

James nodded in acknowledgement as she looked at him. The call had come in from the child’s father and ostensibly the mother’s partner, Shaun Brixworth. He said he’d come home from work to find the door swinging open and the scene in the nursery and had called straight away. He was in the front room with support officers. James could hear him wailing from where he was stood.  
“Any sign of the weapon?” he asked.  
“Nothing yet. But if it was an intruder – a break-in gone wrong – they could well have taken it away to dispose of.”

 

Something about the scene was niggling at James, and he couldn’t help but feel a break-in gone wrong didn’t fit. The mother had been dragged, struggling, up the stairs to the nursery, when it would probably have just been easier to kill her where she was. No, it felt deliberate to James, like someone wanted one to see the other be killed.

Just the thought of that had James feeling sick. He looked about, giving himself a covert shake and swallowing against the wave of nausea. SOCO were combing the scene; they and Laura would report anything else they needed to know. James wanted to get out of there. As if reading his mind, Robbie straightened and came to his side. “I think we need to have a word with the father. Have we got an ID on these two, by the way?” he asked the last to the room at large.

 

“The woman is Michelle, also known as Shelley, Brixworth, aged 37. The child is her daughter Eleanor Brixworth, or Ellie, aged two and a half.” A constable had it written in a notebook. “Had their identities confirmed by the child’s father, who is married to Mrs Brixworth. He is Shaun Brixworth, aged 43. He’s downstairs.”  
James nodded – she hadn’t needed to add that last bit. He spun on his heel and made for the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

Shaun Brixworth was slumped on the sofa in the living room, head in his hands, sobbing. Two family support officers were sat with him, looking a bit helpless, sending each other fretful glances over his head as he cried noisily. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated with both glass baubles and homemade ornaments clearly made by a child, tinsel, and flashing coloured lights. A golden star was balanced precariously on the top, and there were piles of presents beneath, boxes and squashy parcels wrapped in festive paper and ribbons, their jolly appearance an unpleasant juxtaposition with the scene upstairs. Indeed, the whole house, decked out in its seasonal fare of lights and Christmas cards and tinsel, felt at odds with the gruesome events that had taken place that afternoon.

James, focusing again on the job at hand, wiped his face of all emotion and turned to Shaun. “Mr Brixworth?” The man looked up, his face blotchy and tear-stained. He rubbed the back of his hand under his nose and sniffed loudly. “My name is Detective Sergeant Hathaway, and this is Detective Inspector Lewis.” Robbie had followed him in. He paused. “We’re very sorry for your loss, and I understand this is a difficult time for you, but if you could just answer a few quick questions for us, it will really help us to find the person who did this and bring them to justice.”  
He took a seat on the armchair, across from the sofa, and Robbie sat in the neighbouring one.  
“Mr Brixworth,” Robbie began. “Could you just confirm for us what time you got in and found…what had happened?”  
Shaun swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried to speak. It took a few attempts to get past a groggle his throat. “I – I got home about 5.30pm. Parked up outside, usual spot.” He gestured at the window, through which they could see a row of cars in front of all the patrol cars. “Mine’s the Range Rover.” James nodded at a constable, who turned and left the room; James heard him take the keys he’d seen on the rack. Out of the corner of his eye he could see through the window; the lights flashed on the car as it was unlocked.

“Where had you been?” asked Robbie. “At work?”  
“Yeah. I was on days. I work in the pickles factory, Compton’s, shifts. I usually do 7.30-4.30 when I’m on days, ‘cept I was late home today, cos I said I’d nip into town to pick up Ellie’s C-Christmas present. Shell had got it on order, see, but we wasn’t going to pick it up til today, save having to hide it. It was one of them toddler car things, see…they’re pretty big to hide.” He shook his head and swiped furiously at his eyes. “So I pulled up about 5.30, cos I had Radio 2 on and they’d just finished the travel news. And I thought there was something odd because I could see there were no lights on in the house, and as I went up to the door I noticed it was smashed and ajar. I was dead scared, but I had to come in, so I come in calling for Shelley, and – and…” He broke off, choking.  
“Just take your time,” Robbie said gently.  
“There was no lights on, so I put the upstairs light on, and I could see Ellie’s bedroom door was open, cos she’s the one at the top of the stairs, right. And I went up, and…and there they was.” He convulsed, and then opened his mouth, and a guttural howl came out. The support officers converged on him, and Robbie nodded at them, gesturing to James to leave.

Outside, James headed for the Range Rover. The doors were all open, and sure enough, in the boot was a large, boxed toddler-sized ‘car’. It had a big, red bow stuck to it. James regarded it sadly.  
“I’ll head to Compton’s, shall I, sir?” James said quietly.  
“Aye, we need to check, I suppose. I’ll get constables to do a door-to-door, but…” He looked around. It was a little estate, close by to the river. The houses were all detached, and quite well-spaced. It was unlikely any of them heard anything, and if anyone had seen someone breaking in, he’d have thought it would have been called in sooner.

 

At Compton’s, James spoke to the supervisor, but all they could tell him was that Shaun had clocked in and clocked out when he was supposed to, and he’d been seen in the breakroom on his lunch break, which he took from 12-1. The shift had changed since then, though, and the supervisor that had been on in the day wasn’t back in til after Christmas – was, in fact, going away for Christmas.

There wasn’t a lot for them to do that evening – most of the work to be done was for forensics and Laura – so James headed back to the station to do some background checks on the family. Robbie had gone home to get some kip and had told James to go as well, as they really had to wait for the results of the PM and the forensics search before they could do much else, and it was Christmas, after all, but James’ head was too full of horror. He knew he wouldn’t sleep and thought he might as well be doing something useful. He did make a concession, however, and break off his work at 11.30pm to head to midnight mass, feeling that he needed it more than ever.


	3. Chapter 3

It had not been much of a Christmas for James or Robbie. Neither had planned anything, knowing they would be on call, but there was a big difference between being on call and running an active murder investigation. They did at least manage some downtime in the afternoon and evening though, which James spent at Robbie’s, and they caught the Doctor Who special, which James been looking forward to. James never particularly enjoyed Christmas anyway, too many memories, too much past, so the fact that their Christmas dinner consisted of a ready-plated up one each from M&S, ate off their laps in front of some rubbish comedy Christmas special, didn’t bother him. It was nice to have company, at least. In fact James would have easily counted it among his best Christmases, if not the best, despite the time spent in the office.

Robbie called his daughter and spent a long time on the phone to her, hearing from his granddaughter, who was now speaking a bit, all about the Christmas presents she’d had, and then he persuaded James to stay over in his spare room, which was fairly easy once James had had a drink, had a full belly, and was warm and comfortable. The thought of his cold, empty flat, and the icy walk there, was not in the least bit appealing, and once Robbie argued that he fancied company until he went to bed, that swung it. Robbie knew it was a bit naughty, was technically emotional blackmail, but he also knew it was in James’ best interests to stay over, and that his sergeant had a tendency to value Robbie’s wishes above all else. Why not use that to his advantage when it would also benefit James, emotionally or physically?

Boxing Day mainly consisted of more of the same as Christmas morning; going over forensics reports, post mortems, phone and computer records and the ilk. Forensics and the post-mortem had reported fibres in Mrs Brixworth’s jumper and in her hair, and fibres on the catch of the stairgate. The blood on the stairgate was confirmed to be Mrs Brixworth’s, to nobody’s surprise, and, according to Laura, tallied with a wound on her arm. A considerable amount of hair belonging to Mrs Brixworth was found on the stair carpet, suggesting she’d been dragged by her hair and that some had accidentally been pulled out. The same knife had been used to stab both and based on the contamination pattern – the child’s blood had been found on Mrs Brixworth’s clothing around the wound and in the wound itself, but not vice versa – Laura surmised that the child had been stabbed first.

This made James feel ill all over again, and he excused himself abruptly, heading outside for some fresh air and cigarette. Whichever bastard had done this had made Mrs Brixworth watch her child die before condemning her to the same fate. James felt a confused mix of nausea and anger so strong it put a red tint in his vision for a few moments. Why’d it have to be a child? He asked the air again, for the umpteenth time. Why a child at Christmas? He hated the cases involving children. _Hated_ them.

Robbie was back at his desk when James returned to the office, and he didn’t mention James’ sudden departure. James was grateful, and sat down at his computer, taking a breath.

James’ checks on Shaun Brixworth brought back a conviction 15 years ago for assault, but he hadn’t been detained in custody, merely fined and given a three-year sentence, suspended for six months. He’d also been charged with driving under the influence in 2009, and fined. They weren’t terribly well off, but an inheritance from Mrs Brixworth’s mother when she passed away two years ago had enabled them to put down the deposit for their mortgage. Shaun worked full time and Mrs Brixworth had, for the last six months, having had a phased return to work following maternity leave, so they were managing alright. No gambling debts, no strange transactions which suggested blackmail or affairs or drugs or illicit dealing in anything. They’d been married five years, and as far as any of the neighbours could say, were quite happily so.

Whoever had killed Michelle and Eleanor Brixworth had seemed to know what they were doing, as there was next to no evidence to go on. No murder weapon had been located yet, though Laura reckoned they were looking for a kitchen knife, possibly a bread knife, something serrated. There were no fingerprints, and the fibres found came back as matching a common brand of gardening gloves, sold in all major garden centres, DIY stores, and household stores. There were at least ten shops around Oxford which sold them, in considerable quantities, making it impossible to trace the murderer that way. The hammer used to smash the door in yielded no fingerprints, nothing, and was also a common, readily available brand. None of the neighbours reported seeing anything unusual or anyone breaking into the property – a number claimed to have been out, anyway, and the large topiary bushes would hide an intruder well.

Even after both James and Gurdip had spent hours trawling through Mr and Mrs Brixworth’s phones, tablets and laptops, they had found nothing on them to suggest anything untoward. No suspicious texts or emails, nothing in the search history, even when they restored deleted items (of which there were relatively few). There weren’t even any evidence of cross words between the pair in any of their texts. Both phone providers duly sent over expedited call logs, but there was no evidence of phone calls that shouldn’t have been made or that couldn’t be explained reasonably, no patterns to be found, nothing. James felt like he was banging his head against a brick wall, and his attempts to hide his frustration from his boss were becoming increasingly unsuccessful.


	4. Chapter 4

On December 27th, James at last spoke to Shaun’s supervisor at Compton’s, Bradley, finally back after Christmas. He confirmed Shaun had clocked in and clocked out at the correct times on Christmas Eve; he had seen him at lunchtime; both had been on the same lunch allocation, and so had sat in the breakroom together from 12pm til 1pm, at which point they had walked back to the factory floor together. Shaun had returned to his position in the boxing unit, and Bradley had resumed his position at his desk. Bradley had seen Shaun at shift change-over, when they both clocked out together. He’d watched Shaun climb into his Range Rover and drive off, parting with a ‘Merry Christmas’ as neither were back in til after the big day. When James asked if Shaun could possibly have left his position at any point in the afternoon, Bradley had blinked and said, “Why would he?”  
“Well, we’re more interested at the moment in whether or not it would be physically possible. Can you actually get out of the building mid-shift? Would anyone have to authorise his leaving? Would anyone see him go?”  
Bradley had shaken his head. “You have to have a supervisor’s card to leave the building. Most people are let out by the front desk at the start and end of their shift. Mid-shift, you could get let out by front desk, but they’d have to sign you out and you’d need a good reason.”  
“Did you leave at all during your shift? Is there some kind of computer system we can check?”  
Bradley shook his head. “You just swipe it to open the doors. I don’t think it’s logged anywhere, but I don’t know – you’d have to ask at the front desk.”  
James had thanked him and gone to check with front desk. Nobody had signed Shaun out that day, and when they checked the CCTV over the main door, it indeed showed that he hadn’t left that way. The CCTV from the car park also showed that Shaun’s car stayed there all day, and no one went to it, opened it or moved it. When he asked, he was told there was a log for who opened the doors when, but that it was overwritten each day for storage reasons, so they couldn’t get to the list for the 24th, it had already been wiped. Infuriated, James gave them a stern talking to on their security procedures, which relieved a little of his frustration, but not much.

There was no apparent motive for anyone to kill the pair, no evidence in the house to indicate the killer that they had found yet. The nearest CCTV camera was a few streets away, and whilst it had been checked, it was situated on a fairly busy main road, and consequently full of traffic. They couldn’t prove any of the cars had turned off to the Brixworth’s house or were heading there. The only person it could realistically have been, Shaun, had an apparent alibi for the whole day, and there was no evidence to say he had done it anyway. He had no motive, and he lived in the house, so his DNA was everywhere. His supervisor had placed him at the factory at 1pm and he’d been seen leaving at 4.30pm, with nothing to say he’d left at any point in between. James cursed the security failings at Compton’s factory, and heaved a great sigh as he turned his computer off for the night and headed home. Back to square one.

 

On December 28th, no closer to having any idea who would have killed a mother and her child on Christmas Eve, or why, they mounted a press conference, to be broadcast on the national news, hoping that reaching a wider audience – and having Shaun appear in person – would jolt someone into responding, maybe jog memories or prick a conscience.

The room was packed with journalists and reporters and camera crews; the story had made national headlines, shocking as it was, and Innocent had been giving statements to the press for days. This was the first televised appeal they’d made, though, and having Shaun Brixworth there was particularly useful, as he sobbed most of the way through it, clutching a professionally-done photo of his wife and daughter. Eleanor had been a beautiful, angelic toddler, with blonde wavy hair and blue eyes and big smile. Surely once the public had seen how heartbroken her father was…

The press conference prompted a few leads, but disappointingly little concrete. The atmosphere in the office was deeply unpleasant; the media attention was causing Innocent to put them under even more pressure than usual to catch the killer. Newspaper front pages were splashed with the faces of the two killed, and headlines such as ‘Christmas Eve Killings’, ‘Christmas carnage’ and ‘Cruel Christmas Killings’. They lamented over the murder of such an apparently happy family, an angelic little girl, a doting mother, the distraught father, the Christmas presents he’d been to buy on his way home, the shattering of a family. Journalists dispatched to the estate brought back quotes from neighbours such as ‘lovely, kind family’ and ‘they loved their little girl’. Each new day brought a new headline, and each new headline brought Innocent into their office, prodding fingers in their chests and demanding some form of progress – though even she couldn’t deny there were simply just very few leads.

Mrs Brixworth’s family – her brother and sister, as well as an aunt – were frequently at the station, although they rarely saw Mr Brixworth, who seemed to spend most of his time on the sofa in his front room, drinking and crying. They had tried to persuade him to go and stay with family, thinking he wouldn’t possibly want to stay in the house where his family had been slaughtered, even though the bodies had long since been taken away. He refused, and said he felt closest to them at home, that that was all he had left of them. Nobody protested after that.


	5. Chapter 5

The breakthrough, when it eventually came, was conclusive, and the whole thing unravelled very quickly afterwards.

Mr Brixworth had eventually called to say he was going to stay with his sister, driven out of the house by grief and memories. On a whim, James suggested to Robbie that they go and search the house one last time before he left, unannounced. James had never been able to get rid of the niggle he had about Shaun and was worried he would take something that proved crucial with him.

Shaun was still there when they turned up, and when they told him what they were there to do, James thought he saw panic on his face for a split second, but then it was gone, and he just said he’d leave then, to give them some space. Not wanting to risk it, James called for a constable to collect him, and kept him in his sight at all times.

So, searching the house for the umpteenth time, James stumbled upon a drawer that would not quite close. There was a bra strap caught in it, but even once he freed that, it would not slide all the way in. Suspicion piqued, he pulled the drawer out. It was the last place anyone would have thought to inspect so thoroughly for potential clues, Mrs Brixworth’s underwear drawer, but the overhanging bra strap had been a clever ruse; taped to the back of it, the real reason it wouldn’t close, was a pay as you go mobile phone and an access card for Compton’s, with Bradley’s face on it.

 

Bradley had lost the card months ago, he said when they turned up to ask him about it. Said it wasn’t the first time he’d lost one, and that he assumed he’d dropped it somewhere; previous losses had included one falling down a drain. He’d never dreamed that one of his employees had stolen it.

As it was a pay as you go mobile, it couldn’t be traced back to Shaun Brixworth, which was obviously why he’d used it. On it were numerous texts and calls to another mobile, which they traced to a woman named Stephanie Roper, who evidently hadn’t found it necessary to be untraceable. From the content of the text messages it was quite clear Brixworth and Roper had been having an affair. There were also texts to a mobile belonging to a man named Carl Blackwell, which included texts arranging pick up from the back of Compton’s at 1.10pm on Christmas, and another saying he’d ‘cleaned the knife, don’t worry about that mate.’ Previous texts saw them planning the murders, with Brixworth saying he couldn’t stand his family any longer, and he needed them out of the way, so he could be with Roper. Blackwell told him he’d be happy to help Brixworth ‘do them in’.

When they raided Blackwell’s home and car, they found another hammer and a (unfortunately) clean knife in the back, along with a pair of gloves and a Compton’s overall, splattered with blood. Texts revealed the pair were planning to ceremonially burn the whole lot, after Shaun had moved to his sister’s. Tests quickly revealed the gloves matched the fibres found at the house and on Michelle Brixworth’s body, blood from both the mother and the child, and the knife matched what Laura thought could have caused the wounds. There were hairs and skin fragments on the inside which matched Shaun’s DNA.

Conclusive proof that Shaun had indeed been the killer, they swooped down on his sister’s house, only to find that he had left half an hour before, escaping through the back garden before getting in a taxi on the next road.

They split up. Rapid phone calls to the local taxis companies revealed that two taxis had just made pick-ups on that road, from different taxi companies. One had taken a man to a woodland on the outskirts of Wytham, and one had gone back to the Brixworth family home.

Assuming Shaun had used Blackwell (who they had yet to apprehend) as a decoy, a diversion, Robbie headed off with a team of officers to the woodland, which was closer, whilst James raced back to the Brixworth family home and found the police officer who had been on guard unconscious – just as a call to his mobile came through from one of the neighbours to report it – and the front door wide open again.

It had taken them longer than James would have liked to get there – the roads were icy and both caution, and a hold up in an ice-related accident, had slowed them. Robbie would already be tramping through woodland, and James bellowed at someone to pass the message on as he tore up the front path, his feet skidding from under him on the ice. He caught himself on the doorframe, and rushed in. 

Inside, Shaun had been upstairs, frantically scrabbling through drawers, having found that his mobile phone had been discovered and realising his secret must be out. As soon as he heard police pull up, he was running – he pelted down the stairs and, again, scarpered through the back garden, stumbling over the garden wall onto the back lane behind the house, which led onto a cycle path. James followed, vaulting the wall neatly, and tore after him, but Shaun was fast, and had had a bit of a head-start.

They rounded a corner and James saw the river come into view. He was gaining on Shaun all the time, Shaun’s beer belly and unexercised muscles no match for James’ lean frame and long, rower’s legs, but the weather had been bitter, and the ground was icy – it was hard to keep his footing and he wasn’t able to exploit his full speed.


	6. Chapter 6

All of a sudden, James knew what was going to happen before it did, saw it with absolute clarity as he pounded down the frosty path after the man he was chasing, the man who had killed his wife and child on Christmas Eve, and then cried in a press conference to find the killer. Shaun was a man without conscience, and James knew before maybe even Shaun did what would happen when they both rounded the corner and saw the girl – early twenties, five-foot six, slight build – stood on the river bank, sketching the otherwise beautiful, frosty scene, completely unaware what was about to befall her.

She looked round as Shaun approached, but he was moving at a speed he should not have been able to attain for a man of his bulk on an icy path, and she didn’t have much time to react. He grabbed her round the waist and used his momentum to swing her round and catapult her into the river, hoping to distract James.

It certainly worked, though James was counting on the constables he could hear rapidly catching them both to not be distracted. He changed course without faltering and headed straight for the river, not even bothering to shed his coat – he dived right in, his whole being focused on finding the girl, getting her out.

The freezing cold of the river snatched his breath away and he worked hard to retain the little air in his lungs as he fought through the water, pushing, trying to open his eyes against the icy sting. The girl had been in a black coat, and he searched desperately for a dark shape in the water, the current ushering him downstream and buffeting him against rocks and trees.

He already couldn’t feel his hands and his coat was soaked through and starting to weigh him down, but he was so focused on finding the girl that he tried to ignore them. He didn’t know her name, he knew nothing about her, except for she was an innocent girl thrown into danger because she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

His fingers cut desperately through the water, trying to feel with numb fingertips, trying to ignore the scream in his lungs and the terrible urge to open his mouth and suck in a huge gasp of air which he would not find.

Eventually, after what had to have been far too long, his hands closed around fabric and he seized it with all he had, feeling further and finding a wrist, floating lifelessly in the water, then an arm, then a waist. He wound his arms round the body, fighting to keep his eyes open and mouth shut, and then looked around. Which way was up? He kicked out, swimming upwards from his current position, hoping it was the right way. Every moment they were underwater took them both closer to death and he didn’t even know if the girl in his arms was breathing or not.

He thought idly that he could only really hope to save the girl, that he would be satisfied if he rescued her, whatever the outcome for himself. He pushed upwards, almost hopelessly, his legs heavy and nearly useless from exhaustion in the freezing cold river, his lungs crushing agonisingly inside his chest.

Black began to gather at the edges of his vision. No. He had to get the girl to safety. It felt like they had been under water for hours now. He gave another hard kick upwards and gave in to his lungs, choking in a mouthful of the bitingly cold Thames.

All his body wanted to do was to convulse, to eject the water in his lungs, but he forced himself to ignore the instinct, to push on. He just had to get the girl out. Her safety was all that mattered; he didn’t matter, it was his job to save people, but she didn’t have to die. Not today. He blinked upwards and saw light filtering through the water. Almost there. He gave one last push, and his head broke the surface along with the girl, who choked to life in his arms, gasping and spluttering.

In the next second they had sunk back under again and he gave another kick, weaker this time, the cold sapping his strength, and surfaced again, fighting desperately to keep the girl’s head out of the water.

He struggled towards the bank with the girl in his arms, but it was too steep-sided to clamber out; there was nothing he could do except wait to be rescued. The current was fairly strong, and as he glanced about, coughing and spluttering, he saw a tree up ahead, overhanging the river. He kicked desperately, trying to angle them in that direction as they were swept along, and once they reached it, he wrapped an arm around the nearest branch, and clung on, clamping the girl between himself and the limb of the tree and praying he would be able to hold them there until help came. The girl in his arms was breathing, but not conscious, and therefore essentially a dead weight in his arms.

They had been waiting on back up to arrive when he jumped in, and the icy roads meant it was taking everyone much longer to get anywhere, just as had frustrated James earlier. The current had carried them some way downstream, and James did not know how long it would be before anyone came for them. He could only hope it would be soon.


	7. Chapter 7

The girl in his arms had just begun to stir when he heard the whirring of a boat engine heading down the river, and his name being shouted. He wasn’t sure how long it had been; at some point during their wait, everything had become a bit distant, like he wasn’t really there. His arms had gone beyond the point of pain some time ago, and he was sure it was only sheer bloody-mindedness keeping them afloat; he was determined to save this girl who had done nothing but be in the wrong place.

The boat came into view as it rounded a bend in the river, and James could have cried with relief. The girl was not conscious enough to really work out what was going on, but she was starting to move, and it was not really helping his attempts to keep her above the surface.

The engine grew louder and louder, and then drew alongside them, and then arms were round the girl, pulling her from his grasp, into the boat. The removal of her heavy, water-logged form was an inexpressible relief, but he could barely breathe, his lungs felt strangely full and he couldn’t seem to make them pull in enough of the bitter winter air. His coat was heavy with water, and he was exhausted from the cold, from clinging on for so long.

His numb, unfeeling arms finally gave up the fight and lost grip on the tree trunk, and when he sunk under the water, he couldn’t find the strength to kick upwards again. His goal had been achieved, the girl was saved; he had glimpsed the Oxfordshire Police badge on the constable he had handed her over to. He couldn’t find the will to care anymore. Fog was clouding his mind and he dimly watched the light fade as he sank downwards into the cold murk.

A hand round his wrist. It pulled upward, hard, and then was joined by another around his other wrist.  
He spluttered into air yet again and a voice he didn’t recognise in his semi-consciousness spoke into his ear. “I’ve got you, you’re alright, I’ve got you, sarge.”

Together they hauled James out of the water into the boat, and promptly set off for the bank, cutting easily through the rushing water. Someone put a blanket around his shoulders, but he barely felt it. He heard a snatch of conversation, fretting about where the ambulances were, and then they were at the bank, and two constables were helping James out of the boat and onto dry land at last.

His knees promptly buckled, his muscles far too fatigued and his body far too cold to hold him up. His arms were hanging like dead weights by his sides, powerless to do anything to catch his fall.

He was vaguely aware of the girl, who had now come round, shivering in the arms and blankets of a small crowd of police officers, stuttering her thanks in his general direction. He couldn’t make any move to respond though – his limbs were like lead and he didn’t yet have the strength to raise his head. Nor did he have the air to speak, and at that thought the shallow pants that had been barely sustaining him gave way to paroxysms of coughing which shook him where he lay, a wet puddle of human on the icy bank of the river.

He was surrounded by shouts and noise – somewhere off to his left he could faintly hear raised voices which he assumed belonged to the officers who had managed to bring Shaun down and – hopefully – subdue him. To his right, a few people were fussing over the girl he’d fished out of the river. Two officers hovered at his side, trying to talk to him, and ask how he was feeling. He could hardly hear them over the shuddering coughs wracking his frame, however, as he lay spluttering and gasping.

The coughing eventually turned to heaving and retching, the vicious convulsions sending tremors rocking through him. He lay pitifully for what felt like hours, knives stabbing inside his skull, wishing unconsciousness would claim him so he didn’t have to suffer.

A hand on his arm, a blanket settled over his shoulders – he wasn’t sure what had happened to the last blanket. “Come on, sarge, let’s get you to some warmth, yeah? Think you can stand for me?”

James did not think he could, but struggled to his feet with her help, his long, cold limbs uncooperative and awkward, and then he wondered how he was supposed to move anywhere when his feet felt like ten-tonne weights. The constable at his side was trying to persuade to him move forwards so he attempted to take a step anyway.

His unfeeling legs skittered under him like a new-born deer on ice and he went down in tangle of arms and legs, landing on his back and gazing forlornly up at the officer who had somehow managed to stay on her feet.

She was unperturbed and managed to coax him back to his feet again, then in an act of either bravery or stupidity, looped one of his useless arms around her shoulders and endeavoured to take Hathaway’s not inconsiderable weight onto her own body.

The second constable returned at this point, and between them, they managed to get him to a nearby tree, at which point he was overtaken by another ferocious wave of coughing which brought tears pouring down his cheeks. His vision swam dangerously, and he abruptly became aware that coughing – choking, spluttering, whatever it was he was doing – was an extremely inefficient manner of getting oxygen.

There was an enormous impact on his back and a mouthful of water sprayed from his lips, after which the coughing eased by degrees until he could take breaths which could, at best, be described as ragged.

“Sergeant?” He realised the woman was speaking to him and tried to focus. “Sergeant, come on, I think I need to get you sat down,” she said, her face concerned. Then her face blurred with the rest of the world and James knew unequivocally he would faint if he didn’t lie down immediately.

He swayed dangerously, and the world tipped. It didn’t feel like falling, not really, but his knees buckled again and refused to hold him up any longer, and despite the fact that the constable who had taken his weight on her shoulders seemed to be fit and strong, and despite the fact there were two of them, they had no hope of holding James’ tall, solid body, heavy with water and numb with cold, up when it was so determined to be horizontal, and all of a sudden James’ face was pressed into the dirt. He waited for unconsciousness to claim him, as it surely would.

It did not.

He lay there, coughing piteously, lungs and arms burning, whilst the constable and her colleague floundered – all other resources were tied up with restraining Shaun and tending to the girl and they had not had to deal with a casualty before. They were waiting on more units and ambulances, but the icy road conditions were not hastening their arrival.

A car door slammed somewhere. It sounded very far away to James. The cold had settled deep into his bones, and everything felt a bit distant again. Footsteps, fast and urgent, began to pound closer. James paid them no mind until something pricked his ears.

A voice was shouting. “James!” It shouted. “James!” He didn’t know why, but something at the back of his head told him he should respond to the call, and he raised his head.

His eyes, watering and sore still, now locked with those of Robbie Lewis, the man currently racing towards him as fast as his legs would allow, the man who was all but screaming his name. He grew closer and closer and James picked out panic on his face and then he was on his knees beside James and there was a hand on his shoulder shaking him. His boss’s face came very close to his own.

“James? James! Speak to me, lad.”  
The woman who had been helping James interjected. “I don’t think he can speak just now, sir, he inhaled half the Thames.”

Robbie just looked more worried at her words, staring down at his sergeant who longed for the darkness swimming at the edges of his vision to take him in its clutches, relieve him of the pain in his chest, his head, his arms, his everywhere.

Robbie was taking his jacket and coat off when James next focused on him and he laid them over the convulsing form of his sergeant in an attempt to stave off some of the cold. They didn’t make much difference, but it was warm from Robbie running and felt as hot as the sun where it touched James’ bare skin on his neck.

Each breath felt like an enormous effort and before long the world was afloat again, whirling in front of James’ face. Robbie was shouting for help and his hand was clutched desperately round James’, as if he could somehow anchor him to the world by holding on, but James realised he could not feel the grip, his hand utterly numb.

His next breath caught in his throat and sent him tumbling headlong into yet another agonising coughing fit. Robbie’s head whipped round and then his boss’s hands were under his armpits, trying to haul him into a sitting position to clear his airway.

The dizziness intensified with the hurried movement and the arms of darkness finally pulled James into their welcome grasp.


	8. Chapter 8

Robbie had been helping his team search a patch of woodland when the call came through that Shaun had been caught – he’d gone to his house, after all. His initial reaction was relief, with a sprinkling of glee that they’d finally got the callous sod who had killed his little girl and his wife, at Christmas, but it was quickly replaced with anxiety when he was told that Shaun had pushed a girl into the Thames before they’d managed to catch him, and that James had dived straight in after her and hadn’t surfaced yet.

He’d received a stream of updates as he raced back to his car and put his foot to the floor. Speeding with the roads as treacherous as they were was probably not the best idea, but he didn’t care. James had surfaced and brought the girl with him, but they had been carried quite well downstream and when he’d slipped under again he hadn’t been seen to resurface. They had put in a request for a police boat but the roads… Eventually, a fisherman upriver had launched his boat for them, the girl had been rescued, alive and she was probably going to be okay, if cold. Now James was out of the water as well, but he didn’t seem to be doing so well, but Shaun was struggling, and the girl was in need of help, and back-up was taking too long to arrive – his contact had to go and aide the effort until more cars and more officers arrived. Robbie didn’t know what he’d find when he got there. He didn’t know if his sergeant would be recovering or had been pulled out too late and drowned. Another phone call reported that Blackwell had been found at the woods he had just left and taken into custody. Robbie was finding it had to be interested in that, though. He’d arrived at the river where Brixworth had been caught – where James was.

He slammed the brakes on and leapt from the car, kicking the door shut behind him. He began to race towards the tree about 20 metres from the riverbank, under which he could see a dark shape lain on the ground.

As he grew closer, shouting over and over for it could only be his sergeant, it moved, looked at him, and he met the eyes of his lad, his James. “James!” he cried again, willing him to be okay. At least if he was looking at him he wasn’t dead, wasn’t drowned.

It felt like an eternity passed before he reached him, tumbling to his knees at his side. James was in a state. He was whiter than white, blue in places, shaking viciously and totally sodden. He laid a hand on an icy shoulder and shook gently, leaning closer.  
“James? James! Speak to me, lad.”  
A woman who had been beside James, trying to help, when he approached – a detective constable – spoke. “I don’t think he can speak just now, sir, he inhaled half the Thames.”

That did nothing to assuage Robbie’s fears. He barked at her to call an ambulance, even though he was almost certain several would already be on their way, and didn’t bother to listen to her response, electing instead to take his jacket and coat off and drape them over the unresponsive form of his partner, in a weak attempt to help stave off a little of the cold. He hissed at the icy skin under his fingers. This man needed help, and fast. Oxford had been shivering under a cold snap for days, and the river couldn’t be far off frozen. He reckoned James had probably been in the icy water for getting on for 30 minutes, and that was too long 

He knew most of the officers present were occupied with other important matters but he turned and shouted for help anyway, just in case, grabbing James’ hand and clinging on like he could hold him here with it. He begged for help again, knowing he sounded desperate, but then his attention was diverted by James being overcome by a wave of paralysing, excruciating choking, his lungs clogged with river murk.

Acting on instinct, he seized James under the armpits and started to drag him upright, intending to lean him forwards and thump his back to aid the water on its way out of James’ lungs, but the unconsciousness which had been threatening to claim his sergeant since surely before Robbie got there finally won and James’ body slumped in his arms, sliding against his chest and tilting forwards. Robbie got him into the position he had intended anyway, supporting him with a hand splayed across his chest, head leaning towards the frosty ground. He pounded his fist on James’ back and was rewarded with a steady stream of water from Hathaway’s lolling mouth.

When his breathing finally sounded a little easier, Robbie quickly began to strip James of his cold, sopping clothing. He replaced them with the coats and jackets that he demanded off all present officers, then arranged James’ long limbs into the recovery position. He recovered him with his jacket and coat and waited desperately for the paramedics to arrive.


	9. Chapter 9

The clinical tranquillity and pleasant warmth of the intensive care ward was a startling contrast to the haze of fear, pain, confusion and cold that James had known the last time he remembered really being conscious.

Waking had been a slow process. James had come around several times without really recognising who he was, where he was or what was going on. He could hear noises, and see fuzzy shapes and colours, but the world had felt strangely muffled, like he was experiencing it all from beneath a thick blanket. Sleep had been quick to return each time.

Now though, gentle beeps and whirrs wormed their way through his ears into his brain and told him he was in hospital. He cracked his eyes open. Bright light. He blinked a few times. The face of his boss fuzzed into focus beside him. “Sir,” he murmured. His voice was rough and husky from disuse.

Robbie’s head snapped up from the magazine he was hunched over, and a broad smile broke across his face. “Hello, James,” he said. “Back with us at last!”

James looked around sleepily, at the machines, at his boss sat at his bedside and his toes under the blanket. He fumbled for the controller for his bed to raise his head. “How long have I…”   
“A fair while. You’ve had us rather worried.”

James cleared his throat, and now he was sat up, reached for the cup of water on the overbed table, taking a wonderful sip. He gave an experimental cough and found his chest blissfully clear and dry, and he cracked a smile in response before remembering the reason he’d almost drowned in the first place. “Did you get him? Brixworth, I mean? And how is the girl? Did she make it?”

“We did get Brixworth, and a full confession. Blackwell and Roper are in custody as well. As for the girl, Isabella; she’s just fine, made a full recovery, thanks to you. She keeps bothering me to come in and see you, to say thank you. There hasn’t been much point – you’ve been unconscious for six days. I mean, mostly you were just sedated, but still…” Robbie glanced at the door. “Speaking of which…”

He pressed the call button on James’ bed, and a nurse came in a moment later. “Ah, Mr Hathaway,” she smiled. “How are you feeling?”  
“A lot better,” James told her with a smile. “Just residual aching in my chest and ribs, and…a banging headache, actually,” he said with a frown.

The nurse nodded. “Alright. Well, it’s to be expected, but if it gets any worse do let me know and I’ll talk to your doctor. In the meantime, this button here will drop some more morphine into your system.” She paused, frowning. “Now, are you feeling warm enough?” She turned to a little machine beside the bed and prepared a temperature probe.

“Much better on that front, too,” he said. “I’m lovely and warm.” He obediently opened his mouth, so she could place the probe under his tongue. A small beeping issued from the monitor, and her face cleared, both from his response and the numbers she was seeing on the screen. “Excellent,” she said. “Yes, your temperature has remained well within range. You had us quite worried for a while, Mr Hathaway, you were suffering from quite severe hypothermia and with the complications…” But she smiled then. “You were extremely lucky. And on the mend now, I’m glad to say. Okay, well, if you need anything at all, this button here will fetch me.”

James looked at Robbie when the door closed behind the nurse. “What happened, sir? It’s all a little hazy. I think I was a bit in and out.”  
Robbie nodded. “That’s right, lad. I got a call to say you’d got him, but he’d thrown someone in the river and you went in after them. They saw you go under and not come back up, and for a while, they didn’t know what they’d find. When I eventually got there – damn icy roads – I didn’t know if I’d find you alive or not.” His gaze turned stern. James got the uncomfortable feeling he’d tried to die in Robbie’s arms.

“I remember you getting there…you helped…then…I passed out. I’d been trying to do that for a while.”  
Robbie huffed a little laugh. “Yes, well…yes, you passed out in me arms. I got your wet clothes off and covered you in warm, dry blankets…then I turned around and you weren’t breathing. Gave me a right old scare.”  
“You saved me.” James said it with a smile.  
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” Robbie let James have his moment of reminiscing.  
“There were two constables that pulled us out…” he said, thinking. Robbie cut in.  
“Yes, I know. I’ve had them both in to formally thank them. They’ll both get medals for bravery. As will you, of course.”

James flushed. So much fuss. Then he frowned at the general detritus surrounding Robbie. Empty food boxes, tissues, a towel over the back of the chair, books, bottles of water, a carrier bag at his feet in which James could see clothes. “Have you been here long, sir?”

Robbie’s turn to flush. “Aye, I might have been. Not every day I have to perform CPR on me sergeant now, is it? And while it was very noble thing you did there, I have to say…as your Inspector, and as your mate, I’d rather you didn’t act quite so recklessly in future. You damn near died. I didn’t know when I got there if you’d have been pulled out too late and drowned. Or have succumbed to the hypothermia. All I was told was you were in a bad way.” He shrugged and looked away from James. “I didn’t like it, is all.”

James looked affectionately at Robbie. “Well, I’m sorry about that, sir. I will try to be more careful, in future.”  
“The nurse wasn’t lying, James,” Robbie said, seriously, his face downcast. “We did really nearly lose you to the hypothermia. One of the constables told me that when they pulled you out you weren’t fighting. That you were just sinking in the water. They thought you were unconscious at first.”  
“No, not quite,” James said, remembering wishing that he could just succumb to the painless dark. “I was just…exhausted. I didn’t have the strength to fight any more. The girl was safe. I’d done my job.”  
“Well, you see to it that you’re more careful in future. I don’t know what I’d done if I’d arrived to them telling me that they’d pulled you out but were very sorry and there hadn’t been anything they could do.” He paused. “I thought you were dead when I got there, actually.” A shudder went through him at the memory of his friend, motionless and grey, his eyes closed, face pressed into the ground.  
James dipped his head, glad his memory of this was hazy at best. “I’ll be more careful, sir.”

Robbie’s mobile rang. “Ah, it’s Innocent,” he said with a smile, answering and putting it on speaker-phone. “Hello, Jean.”  
“Robbie. How’s the patient?”  
“Awake and talking, I’m pleased to report,” Robbie replied, then held the phone closer to James.  
“Hello, ma’am,” James said obediently.  
“Ah, James!” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Am I pleased to hear your voice. You gave us quite the fright.”  
“So I’ve been hearing,” James replied, but it was with a smile. “I’m sorry to have worried you, ma’am. Though I hear the girl – Isabella – is doing well?”  
“She is. And Brixworth – Shaun – is safely locked up, thanks to you.”  
“Just doing my job, ma’am.”  
“Hmm. Well. I’ll pop by in a little while to see you,” she said, and her voice was warm. “I don’t like having one of my best officers unconscious in hospital. I’ll be glad to see you.”  
“I look forward to it,” James replied, a smile on his lips as Robbie sniggered.


	10. Chapter 10

She had barely hung up when Robbie’s phone buzzed again. “Laura,” he told James. “She’s been calling regularly for updates when she can’t be here.” He hit answer again, then put it on speakerphone again and held it towards James. He had obviously heard about the trauma James’ arms had gone through; they only mildly ached now, and James thought he would have no problem holding a phone, but he appreciated Robbie’s thoughtfulness.

“Hello, Laura,” he said with a smile, which broadened when he heard her delighted gasp.  
“Oh, James!” She let out a sort of half-sob. “I’ve never been so happy to hear your voice! How are you feeling?”  
James blinked, slightly taken aback by the force of her emotion. “Oh, um – I’m feeling much better now, thank you, Laura,” he said.

Once she’d hung up, Robbie smiled at him sadly. “I don’t think you realise how close we came to losing you,” he said quietly. “Everyone is quite relieved that you’re awake. It was touch and go for a while. Too long,” he added.  
James swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly. I didn’t mean to put you through that.”  
Robbie nodded, and reached out to pat James’ hand.

James was quite tired after that and settled back in his bed for a sleep. Robbie said that the nurses had warned him James would sleep a lot for the first little while after he’d woken up – the sedatives they’d had him on were strong and took a while to shake off. He’d been asleep for a while, so Robbie decided to head back to the station to see Innocent and make a start on the work piling up on his desk.

He went to Innocent’s office as soon as he arrived to report on James’ condition. There had been a long period of time in which James was not expected to pull through, and she’d never lost an officer before, especially one she was as close to as James; Robbie knew it had had quite an impact on his boss. “How is he?” she asked as soon as he’d shut the door.  
“On the mend,” he told her truthfully. “He’s a fighter, that lad. They reckon he’ll be okay now, just got to shake off the drugs and rest. He’s sleeping just now, that’s why I’ve come away. Nurse told me he’d probably be out for a while, but it’s okay – it’s healing sleep, it’s not sedation or anything.”  
Innocent gave a shaky sigh. “Thank goodness.”

Isabella, the girl James had nearly died to rescue, visited James the next day. She’d only been discharged a few days previously but was well on the mend now. James found it all a bit embarrassing – she kept on thanking him, and crying (evidently, she’d heard about the predicament James had got into). It only got worse when her parents joined her, wringing James’ hands and thanking him over and over for saving their little girl. James tried not to show his exasperation and managed to get them to leave by falling asleep again. Robbie explained that it was the sedation lingering in his system so they weren’t offended (it brought on another round of tears from the mother over how ill he’d been) and they went home, clutching their daughter close.


	11. Chapter 11

They kept James another week in hospital, and, even then, told him he wasn’t allowed home alone. Robbie told him the spare bed was his for the foreseeable future, and when James protested, he reminded him that Robbie was currently in possession of James’ house and car keys, and they’d do better to follow the hospital’s instructions.  
“Sir, I’ll be absolutely fine at home.”  
Robbie rounded on him, fed up of the complaints. “James, we nearly lost you. I’m not risking anything, okay?” He let the strain show in his voice and face, and James immediately backed down, looking guilty.  
“I – sorry, sir,” he said quietly, looking down. “I didn’t think about that.”  
Robbie felt bad for the emotional blackmail, but at least it had got him to give in.

He was on light duties at work, and Robbie would have been happy for him to stay at home for a few more days, but James was adamant he was going to go to the nick, and there actually was quite a stack of reports and statements that James needed to write, being the officer that had discovered the damning evidence, and then caught Brixworth.

James had definitely underestimated how long his recuperation would take, and therefore it was quite an exhausted sergeant who flopped down onto his boss’ sofa that Friday night in front of the fire, while Robbie brought in their bag of spoils they’d picked up on the way home. Indian takeaway and their favourite brand of beer.

He couldn’t believe how tired he was, after a fairly sedentary week sitting at his desk typing reports. Seeing him yawn and blink heavily, Robbie smirked as he dished up curry. “Yeah, lad, almost dying of hypothermia will do that to you, I reckon.”  
James pretended to glare at him but took the plate of jalfrezi and glass of beer gratefully. Staring determinedly at his curry and not at Robbie, he said “Thank you for insisting I come and stay with you. I…I…” He sighed. “I know I would have struggled on my own.” At Robbie’s silence, he looked over. Robbie was smiling at him, affection in his eyes that warmed James all over.  
“I’m glad, James. I’m just happy to have you where I can see you. But I’m glad it’s helped.”

The two men tucked into their curry and naan bread, and if James fell asleep on Robbie’s shoulder that night and had to be half-carried to bed, well, neither of them would mention it in the morning.


End file.
